


Complications

by Melawen_C



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Season/Series 02, Unrequited (but not?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melawen_C/pseuds/Melawen_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese and Finch have some complications with a case... emotional complications follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complications

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after 2x02 (Bad Code). Not a very long fic, but the idea struck and just needed to be put to writing. It may become more than a one-shot, but I make no promises for things like that. ;)
> 
> In case you missed the tags - plenty of aaangst & misunderstandings. (Because apparently that's how I like my pairings.) <3
> 
> That being said, enjoy. :)
> 
> __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_Tap tap tap tap._

Harold’s fingers beat out a mindless, restless rhythm on the edge of the keyboard as he watches John on the monitor. 

After a series of mishaps and an identity trail that took Harold admittedly much longer than usual to decipher, they’re now pursuing their latest ‘number’ – John, on foot; Harold, via the cameras.

He’s gaining on him now (a block away, at the most), when John stops. Stops dead in his tracks, staring down at the screen of his phone.

Harold’s fingers freeze, too, poised over the keys.

“John,” he prompts, tentatively, after a moment.

John straightens, pockets his phone and says, very calmly: “This case is over.”

Harold has no idea what is happening, but he doesn’t think he likes it. John has turned around and is now walking in the opposite direction.

“I assume you have a good reason for letting an inevitably dangerous man get away with a crime?”

“I do,” John says coolly.

Harold raises an eyebrow, even though he knows John doesn’t see. “And I assume you will share that reason with me?”

“Do you trust me?”

Harold is surprised by the question, but doesn’t need to think before he answers.

“Entirely.”

“Then I want you to destroy all the information you found on him, in every way you can, and then do nothing else on that computer. Don’t watch me and _don’t_ leave the building. Understand?”

“John, are you-”

“I’m fine,” he says, quickly, but Harold hears the note of hesitation there. “Don’t worry about me. I need to get rid of this phone, I’m sorry, but I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Will you do what I’ve said?”

Harold swallows.

“Yes,” he replies, wanting to say more, to ask more, but he recognizes that they’ve been compromised, somehow, so he won’t.

John turns and finds the nearest camera, looking up so Harold can see him. He nods briefly and Harold recognizes it for what it is: a goodbye of sorts, his signal for _now_.

He hears the _click_ as John disconnects the phone. Harold dives into the system to clear out the info, then turns off all his surveillance and sits there, in the silence, wondering what the hell just happened.

It’s six hours before John returns. Six hours for Harold to think and worry and go through a million horrible scenarios in his mind. It’s a very long six hours.

John enters the room cautiously, like he’s expecting something or someone else there. Harold says nothing, but focuses on the look in his eyes… if he didn’t know better, he’d call it _fear_.

John moves, silent as always, to glance out the window and then returns to Harold’s side, leading him to one of the smaller, more secluded rooms before speaking.

“You’re alright?” he asks, gripping his arm.

Harold answers him with another question: “what is going on?”

“I got a message,” John begins, “she told me to leave him alone.”

 _She_. Harold doesn’t need to ask to know who he means. He’s not surprised, really. That, at least, explains the excessive complications of this case.

“She said that if I didn’t…” he trails off, clearly frustrated. “She had all his information. She knew what he was planning, she knew everything we knew, Harold. I didn’t have a choice.”

John’s body is vibrating with tension, as he paces back and forth, the energy of a caged animal in every movement he makes. 

“So you let him go.” Harold really doesn’t mean for the statement to sound as patronizing as it comes out, but John hears it in his tone nonetheless.

“She said she’d kill you,” he hisses unapologetically, his expression deadly.

Harold thinks he should feel afraid, but standing in this room with the man who manipulated his machine to save him, he doesn’t see any reason to be.

John, however, has a wild look in his eyes and that, more than the threat itself, is making Harold uneasy. He wonders what happened during those hours before he came back, but he knows better than to ask. He needs to take his mind off of this.

“I need to get back on the computer,” he says quietly, ignoring the incredulous look John shoots him.  
“Now that I think about it, there was a strange pattern to the numbers in one of the files. I deleted it, but I could probably-”

“You and your damn numbers,” John growls, closing the distance between them and kissing him, desperately.

Harold makes a small noise of surprise, which John swallows greedily, before pulling him even closer, one hand curling around his hip. His hands are gentle, so gentle, but his mouth is frantic on Harold’s, like he’s afraid he might still lose him. Harold has no choice but to kiss him back, trapped as he is in the embrace.

He brings his hands to John’s chest, feels the heat of his skin through his shirt, the pounding of his heart… John’s fingers trace his jaw, his ears. It’s too much.

“Stop,” he tries, the sound caught and muffled between their lips, with no escape, no chance of being heard. 

Harold pushes against him.

“John, stop,” he tries again, as John’s kisses slow and he can finally manage to speak.

He pulls back enough for Harold to see his eyes, pupils blown. The last time someone looked at him this way… He looks away, looks down, to see John’s hand now clenched on the lapel of his jacket, and something curls tightly in his gut, as tightly as John’s white-knuckled grip that he can’t seem to relinquish.

John’s breathing is ragged. Harold has never seen him this out-of-control, this undisciplined. (Once, he amends, remembering one of their first meetings – the shock of being pinned against a wall, unyielding arm at his throat, harsh breath on his cheek, all from the mention of something too personal: _You were too late_.) It’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating to see him like this and Harold is helpless to stop the sudden thoughts of how this might have ended had he simply _let him continue_. He swallows, hard.

John does let go, retreating a few steps and running a hand along the back of his neck. His collar is askew, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, and Harold realizes _he’s_ the one who did that. He feels dizzy.

“This is,” he begins, shaking his head. He has to pause to breathe. _This is crazy,_ he thinks, letting himself panic for a moment about everything now, though he tries to keep his expression neutral as he formulates the most logical reason why they can’t… they shouldn’t… 

_Could they?_

He’s really not prepared for this. He’s used to information and clues and signs that lead him somewhere and this… this is too unexpected. Too complicated. 

He exhales. 

Too much.

He can blame the adrenaline; they can brush it off as an impulsive, emotional reaction… It’s a weak argument, but it’s the best one he’s got. Their partnership, in their line of work, does not allow for this. It _can’t_. If they become a liability, a weakness for one another… When he thinks about John threatening the machine, he worries they already have.

He looks up, prepared to make his argument now that he’s reached the end of his private, internal meltdown, when he sees that John’s regained his composure. His face is calmer, his bearing controlled.

“I’m sorry, Harold,” he says in that low, smooth tone of his. He spreads his hands, an expression of guilt, “I was upset and I got carried away. It was…” he presses his lips together. “It was careless and I know better.”

Harold should feel relieved – it’s the same reasoning he just made to himself – but he finds he doesn’t like how it sounds at all. And that frustrates him.

He has drawn lines and set boundaries and tried so very hard to abide by those rules because the rules are what make _sense_. The rules are what keep things in motion. Despite all his efforts, steadily, steadily, John keeps pushing and pushing and Harold feels that resistance give way, crashing helplessly around him. But he cannot just give _in_. He doesn’t even know how to, anymore.

So it frustrates him.

But he nods, accepts John’s apology, and carries on. At least, he tries to.

More and more, he reverts to calling him ‘Mr. Reese’ rather than ‘John’. (He has to, can’t let it get too familiar.) Reese still calls him ‘Harold’, but he doesn’t comment on it; that’s his choice.

They don’t make a new contingency plan. After all, the one they have in place is apparently amendable. 

Most days, Harold is thankful for the privacy of the library – that even though they work together, they’re not side-by-side or in each other’s space constantly. But some days, when he hears Reese’s voice in his ear, he imagines lips on his skin and it’s all he can do not to throw his earpiece across the room.

Harold drinks less tea, now that Reese no longer brings him any.

It’s a few weeks later, when he has a voicemail on his phone from a number he doesn’t even try to trace.

“You know, Harold,” she purrs, “you torture yourself more than I ever could.”

Just this once, he thinks she may be right.


End file.
